


all my tomorrows

by zyan



Category: Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Bisexual Character, Character Study, Drug Use, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Marijuana, Queer Character, Self-Denial, Sexuality Crisis, Smoking, YouTube, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-11-07 23:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11069355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zyan/pseuds/zyan
Summary: Zayn and Harry share a shitty Youtube channel, routinely getting high before they press record. A fan’s question strikes up unbothered thoughts and feelings they never realized they had for one another.





	1. i'd like it if you stayed

**Author's Note:**

> few notes:  
> \- they're both 19 in this fic  
> \- both in uni  
> \- takes place in Bradford  
> \- I paired a [ Spotify playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/user/softyware/playlist/6jDFTd9A2TLsWmPQ6om2VT) I created w this fic, I'll list each song that goes w each chapter if you'd like to listen while you read
> 
> sidenote: I can't write this is my pitiful attempt to since I've been daydreaming about this for the past month

_400 Lux - Lorde_

“Okay, okay. Rolling.”

The camera clicks on, and both Zayn and Harry’s fuzzy mirrored images faces the two of them leaning against the couch. Harry turns to smile at Zayn. Zayn smiles back, then laughs.

They’ve been sinking into the seats of Harry’s worn out couch for the past three hours now, the only noise other than the crinkle of their shared blunt was the faint sound of _Too Cute!_ reruns playing in the background. Bits and pieces of the Cavi Cone joint were sprinkled around the carpet, Lorde was humming from the radio on the floor, and the room smelt really good - only because Harry brought _those_ candles. The sweet ones.

Harry’s talking to him, Zayn knows that much because his mouth keeps moving, but Zayn’s kind of zoned in only on his lips. That was up until Harry snaps a finger right next to his ear. Zayn yelps, covering his ear and reaching to hit Harry until the light above the two of them makes an unsettling _buzz buzz_ sound and flickers on and off.

“Oh my fucking god,” Harry laughs, distracted, and sits up. “Again? It’s broken again?”

He stands on the couch, reaching for the light bulb. Zayn tugs at the shorts Harry’s wearing (and has been, for a solid week) to pull him back down.

“It’s fine. C’mon, let’s record before it blacks out on us.”

Harry rests by falls back to Zayn’s side, close enough to him that the smell of weed could make Zayn high all over again. Or would that even work? Could Zayn just smoke the bits stuck in the cloth of Harry’s sweater? It could maybe reverse forms from liquid and turn back into smoke, making its way from Harry’s sticky breath to Zayn’s mouth. Zayn laughs at the thought.

“I’m so high, man. Like, my brain’s out of here,” he tells Harry. Harry’s looking at him from the corner of his eye, putting his hair into a ponytail with a bracelet. Zayn shifts his focus from Harry’s hair to the camera.

“We should start. Do we have questions?”

“We have questions,” Harry says, chewing at his lip. “We should do the intro.”

Their Youtube channel is _probably_ the shittiest one out there - they only upload on Wednesday’s, because Harry gets off of work early on Wednesdays, and they’re always blatantly high when they do it. Zayn’s considered more than twice renaming their channel to “Sorry we’re such shits!” solely because he read one comment on their infrequent uploads and felt like shit about it for the rest of the month.

But Harry doesn’t really care to keep up with their social media and tells Zayn he shouldn’t care too much either. So he doesn’t. But he really does, because Zayn cares too much about everything and doesn’t want to disappoint the people paying a good chunk of his rent every month. 

“Okay,” Zayn claps once. “I’m Zayn, that’s Harry. We’re here again. Again again again, every Wednesday.” Zayn points finger guns at the camera.

“Welcome back to the channel, okay? We’re doing questions today. We got . . .” Harry gets distracted for a second, looking at Zayn’s hands and smiling dopily. He swats the finger guns, picking up and pointing to his phone. 

“We got questions. From you guys, aliens, that’s what we’re doing.”

Zayn barks a laugh, throwing his head back onto the couch. “Are we? Are we actually? Because this is taking forever.”

“We are! I’ll start. Okay? This one’s from _freeeeee_ -”

Zayn half groans and half laughs, blinking with wet eyes up at the ceiling. “Just say the question, Harry. You can’t pronounce usernames. What’s the question?”

Harry can’t stop smiling when he looks at Zayn, and time probably passes for a solid hour before he opens his mouth to ask the question. Zayn’s only thinking about how much of a bitch this’ll be to edit.

“Do you sleep… Zayn,” Harry pinches Zayn, and Zayn sits up and faces Harry to let him know that _yes_ , _he’s definitely paying attention._

“Okay. Zayn. Do you sleep with your sheets tucked in or out?”

Zayn sucks at his lip, not even having to think about it because he already knows - it’s out - he just likes watching Harry pretend like he’s not looking at him. 

“However you do it, babe,” he says to Harry, winking poorly.

Harry laughs, for probably the trillionth time that evening, pushing at his shoulder. His cheeks turn as red as his eyes, and Zayn starts thinking about how badly he just wants one more joint. _Maybe they should smoke some more. Maybe they should smoke everyday._  

“I sleep with them in. I know you don’t,” Harry says, smiling so hard the muscles in his cheeks are probably tearing. Zayn rubs his arms to ignore the goosebumps that just bubbled up onto his skin.

“Nah, you’re right.” Zayn drops his head against the couch again. “Out. Next.”

Harry shakes his head, his loose ponytail coming apart by the minute. His curls drop to the sides of his face, because they’re too short for a ponytail but he doesn’t listen when Zayn says so.

“Mmmmmkay. Have you ever peed in the woods?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Who hasn’t?”

“I haven’t,” Harry tilts his chin up a little bit in pride.

“Shut the fuck up,” Zayn says, and Harry laughs for a minute straight again. Zayn smiles a little more. “I swear you’re higher than me, but that’s ‘cos I’m chiller than you.”

Harry just nods, his entire body shaking with the movement. “You are! You’re so chill. It’s cool, do you get it?”

Zayn hums, slowly becoming hyper-aware of how close they are. He pushes at Harry. “You’re always so close to me. Move over.”

Harry doesn’t budge, just flicks a finger through Twitter once more to find another question. His eyebrows shoot up when he presses his finger against the screen hard enough for it to pick up his fingerprint, and he looks to Zayn with wide eyes.

“This one’s a good one, okay? Are you ready?”

Zayn’s eyelids droop, and he nods. “I’m hungry.”

“Shut up - have you two ever kissed one another?”  Harry laughs and keeps looking at Zayn, and Zayn almost thinks Harry’s asking him about someone else before his brain runs a lap around logic and he gets it.

“We haven’t,” Zayn says lowly, still looking at Harry look at him. “That’s the answer to the question.”

But Harry’s still got this stupidly hopeful look on his face, like they should. _They should. Should they?_

“We should,” Harry says, somehow even closer than he was before.

“But should we?” Zayn raises a brow, zoning back in on Harry’s lips. It wouldn’t be - _bad_. They’ve been friends for years. 

“We’ve been friends for years, Zayn. Best friends kiss, right?”

“You’ve got to stop reading my fucking mind, man,” Zayn mumbles under his breath. Harry presses his thumb against Zayn’s bottom lip, leaning closer, and Zayn can already _tell_ he’s blushing from the dick up.

Harry has a jolt of insecurity, it seems like, because he shivers and moves backwards, still smiling.

“Bro, should we? Really.”

Zayn laughs at Harry’s inconsistence and pulls at his own hair, tugging some over his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about it because he’s never thought about it, and now he’s sitting here _thinking_ about it - thinking about kissing Harry, of all things. He just wanted to smoke.

“But that’s all it’ll be, right? Like, just kissing,” Zayn says.

Harry starts clacking his teeth, a nervous tick, and Zayn reaches over to gently slap his cheek.

“Yeah,” Harry grabs Zayn’s hand, and pulls himself closer to Zayn with it. “I guess. Yeah, if you want.”

Harry’s nearly all the way in Zayn’s lap at this point, and when Zayn’s hand falls it drops to Harry’s warm skin on his lower back. 

“Oh boy,” Harry half laughs, half whispers at the very little space between him and Zayn.

“Yeah, oh boy,” Zayn repeats. He looks back down at Harry’s lips. “You just wanna kiss me.” 

“Maybe so,” Harry laughs a little more, and Zayn’s eyes divert to the dimples. _He’s pretty cute. It wouldn’t be bad._

“I wanna do it for the fans. Our aliens, you know? Ask and ye shall recieve,” Harry mindlessly tugs at the zipper of Zayn’s sweater, pulling it all the way up to Zayn’s neck.

“They never asked for this part.” Zayn lets his hand wander. 

“Mm-mm,” Harry’s curls tickle Zayn’s cheeks when he shakes his head. Harry wraps both arms around Zayn’s neck, bouncing his nose against Zayn’s. He laughs and smells like weed and sweet stuff.

Zayn shuts his eyes, leans forward, and Lorde sings _and i like you, and i like you… i like you._


	2. it always stays the same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn mulls over some thoughts he's been ignoring.

_#88 - Lo Fang_

It’s 2 P.M. the next day, and Zayn’s been sitting in his school's library staring outside the window thinking about kissing Harry. Or, rather, having _kissed_ Harry. Because it isn’t happening again.

He hasn’t let himself think about whether he wants to kiss Harry again or not because when he does he gets this strange and unsettling swooping feeling in his stomach; he ends up feeling nauseous, embarrassed, and anxious all at once. It’s not fun nor does he have his meds on him, so he hasn’t allowed himself to think about it since. But now, as Zayn gazes through the window and watches responsible students walk to their classes on time, it’s all he can fucking think about.

It wasn’t even like that was Zayn’s first kiss - it _wasn’t_ \- he’s kissed plenty girls before. A total of three after his secondary school years. Harry was just the first guy, and it felt like he’d never kissed anyone before when he kissed Harry. Or it just never felt right, the way it did with him. But Zayn still likes girls! He does. The kiss was just a question he and Harry had to respond to, and besides, it’s normal to kiss your best friend. It’s a mantra Zayn’s been mentally repeating: _it is normal to kiss your best friend_.

They kissed for a while when it happened. Like, twenty minutes long. Zayn knew he leaned forward first, but it felt like Harry leaned forward just as fast because their foreheads bumped and their teeth clacked together. After that split awkward second everything tasted sweet and grassy and bitter, and as much as he doesn’t want to admit it he wants to go back and do it again. Anytime Zayn leaned back to breathe and ease the heart that was seconds from exploding out of his own chest, Harry would reach out for Zayn’s neck and hold him closer, kissing him even harder.

The only thing that officially broke them apart (and helped Zayn’s boner disappear) was Harry’s ringtone going off playing the _It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia_ theme song and scaring Harry so much that he kicked Zayn’s leg in attempt to quickly leap off the couch and get to his phone. All he said was ‘um’ for a long dragged out two minutes, and ‘sorry’ as he pointed to the phone and left Zayn’s house with his jacket, hat, and backpack haphazardly thrown on his body.

After _that_ , Zayn blushed for a solid thirty minutes before he calmed down enough to smoke another blunt.

Now, in real time and in the grim atmosphere of the fourth floor of the library, Zayn picks up his pencil and spins it on it’s lead point.  He scribbles on his paper ‘what am i afraid of ?!’. Underneath, he lists: 

  * Rollercoasters


  * Ocean


  * Harry


  * Admitting I might be gay



After an hour of reading over his simple list, he absent-mindedly scribbles over the last two bullet points until the pencil tears a hole into his paper.

 

-

Zayn receives a text message from Harry later that day, as he was finishing off his last pretzel dog. _Heyo_. Zayn ignored it for ten minutes before he caved in.

**Wzzup**

_What are you doing? ;)_

It wasn’t anything even remotely sexual, even with the pitiful emoticon, because Harry types like that all the time. But Zayn hasn’t stopped thinking about anything and everything sexual with regards to Harry and the entirety of last night, so he began panicking about what hidden message _Harry_ thought he was sending.

 _Like what are you up to_ Harry sends, after Zayn’s radio silence. Zayn aims for a tone of sounding cool, calm, collected, and hopes he’s giving off that vibe as he sends his next text.

**Just finished eating lunch. Pretzel dogs !**

_Alone? :(_

**Yup**

_That’s sad. Like an old man eating alone. I could’ve eaten with you_

**But you didn’t :p your loss**

_I’m sorry. Couldve shouldve wouldve…_

Neither of them say anything for a second, and Zayn just stares at the screen. Harry is probably doing the same thing.

 _Send a pic?_ Harry says. Zayn does.

_Could you be any less attractive_

**Hahahha. Is there something you wanted, or..**

_Ummmmmmmmmmmmmm. Come over later?_

Zayn doesn’t let himself think about it too long.

**Course**


	3. mean every word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn goes to Harry's apartment, per his request. He finds Louis in Harry's place. Chatting ensues.

_Pretty Little Birds - SZA_

Zayn walks to Harry's place for many reasons. One, he's practicing being environmentally friendly. Two, he refuses to learn to drive out of the fear of killing someone else. And three, he doesn’t actually own a car - he just shares a blue Volvo with peeling paint and torn back seats with Louis. Also, he has to clear his head. Or at least make an attempt to.

Every time he starts thinking of _Harry_ and _boys_ and _girls_ and _maybe being gay_ and _maybe just not being gay_ and _missing his mum_ , Zayn can feel anxiety bubbling in his chest and he mentally pushes everything aside. Walks, Zayn found, helped clear his head.

He keeps his earbuds in his ears, blasting his ‘1 day i’ll make it’ playlist he created for himself months ago, and watches his feet cross until he makes his way to Harry’s doorstep. He knocks twice.

Louis’ face is what greets Zayn seconds after he rings on the doorbell.

“Dude,” Louis says, stoned, reaching to give Zayn a one-armed hug. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’,” Zayn replies, letting Louis pull him into Harry’s apartment. He looks around for the one person he was summoned here by, but only sees Louis standing in front of him with his black hoodie covering half his face, smoking two joints at once.

“Where’s Harry?” Zayn asks, dropping his bag on the floor. Louis just shrugs, offering one to him.

“I don’t smoke without Harry,” Zayn shakes his head. Louis laughs for a solid minute.

“Fuck. Is there actually something going on?” Louis says, but it’s muffled by the joints he’s carelessly holding in between his lips, so Zayn doesn’t really understand him.

“Huh?”

Louis eyes Zayn for a while, squinting, then shakes his head too. “Nevermind, mate. Forget about it.”

Louis is somehow even more hyper and faster on his feet when he’s high. All of a sudden he’s in a rush, running around and jittery, aching to do something. It makes sense that Harry’s apartment is perfectly clean when Zayn walked in. Also, safe to assume Louis has been here for a while because the usual rags, scarves, and sweaters that would be hanging around Harry’s furniture are gone, all his tea cups in order, and every single candle in the apartment lit. It just makes no sense that Harry _isn’t_ here.

“You really don’t know where Harry is? Like, actually?” Zayn busies himself by wandering to the couch sitting in the middle of the living room.

“He told me to come over. I came over,” Louis shrugs. “He left weed on the coffee table, so I took it.”

“Oh,” Zayn blinks, dropping onto the couch and letting his head fall against it. “He told me to come over too.”

“Bro,” Louis says, sitting beside Zayn, tugging his hoodie into his hair so he can clearly see Zayn. He offers a joint again. “You sure you don’t wanna smoke?”

Zayn drags a hand over his face. He wants to, because he’s fucking stressed. But he really doesn’t smoke without Harry. Harry doesn’t smoke without him. It’s their thing.

“‘m sure. Just wanna know where Harry went.”

“Jesus, fucking text him? I don’t know. Stop talking about it.”

Louis is back on his feet again, searching for God knows what in the kitchen.

Zayn sends Harry a text: **I’m at your place**

 _Kool_ Harry sends back.

**Louis is here**

_Uh huh._

**Your not coming?**

_Omw_

“He’s on his way,” Zayn says loud enough for Louis to hear him.

“I don’t care,” Louis says back. “Wanna listen to something?”

“Whatever.”

Louis plugs his phone into the miniature radio Harry has sitting on his coffee table, turning his music up.

“Bro,” Louis says, taking a moment to shut his eyes and sway, then fixes his hair. “Can I ask you something?”

“Alright,” Zayn answers, picking up one of the pillows sitting against the couch that’s truly there for style and is actually really scratchy and painful to the touch, and shoves his face in it. He momentarily wonders if Harry told him about yesterday.

“Do you think Harry’s gonna be mad I took the rest of his stash?”

The couch sinks beside Zayn, and Louis’ elbow bumps against his.

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs. “He always is, and you always do.”

“Hmph,” Louis blows out rings. Minutes pass before Louis speaks up again, “Why’d he call you over?”

Zayn turns his head to look at Louis. “Why’d he call you over?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “He asked if I wanted to hang out.”

“Yeah. He just asked me to come over.”

“He let me take his car over to... you know? Over there? The repair shop.”

“He doesn’t have a car.”

“Oh, _he…_ ” a smirk ghosts Louis’ lips, dragging out the word, narrowing his eyes and looking at Zayn. “Are we talking about the same ‘he’?”

“Who the fuck else are you talking about, Louis?”

Louis belts a laugh, smoke puffing out of his mouth and swirling into the cinnamon scented air. Zayn desperately wants to smoke with him.

“I was talking about _my_ roommate!”

“Alright,” Zayn chuckles helplessly. “Okay. Yeah, whatever. I’m talking about Harry.”

“Oh, Harry.” Louis drops himself further into the couch. “ _Harry_. He’s a funny guy, yeah? You know, man. You know. I’m so high.”

“You haven’t been smoking for long.”

“This is… bro. I’ve been smoking for like three hours.”

Zayn mumbles a sound, hiding his face back in the pillow. He feels like he’s going to get a migraine. It might be because he hasn’t eaten thing yet, or just. Just the fact that he’s been trying to suffocate the daydreams and split-second thoughts about Harry’s mouth on his for the past few hours.

He wonders, again, if Harry told Louis about kissing him last night. But Harry isn’t like that. He wouldn’t tell Louis, then put Zayn and Louis in the same room. He doesn’t hate Zayn that much to put him in a situation like that. At least, Zayn hopes Harry doesn’t hate him that much.

Harry wouldn’t kiss him if he hated him. Zayn hopes.

All he can do is hope, with Harry in mind. He’s fucking flaky. He makes no sense. But Zayn gets it, and he’s gotten it for years; it’s why they’re friends, they click, they balance one another out. They smoke together and have opposing senses of humor and share clothes and film videos together. It’s a prime example of best friends. They should stay that way, for the sake of Zayn’s sanity. Harry could actually hate him for all he knows.

“Are you listening to me?” Louis asks, shoving at Zayn’s side with his elbow.

“Nah,” Zayn shakes his head, sits up, and looks at Louis. “Sorry. What’d you say?”

Louis narrows his eyes, again, and pulls the pillow from Zayn’s lap into his.

“Said do you think Harry brought food?”

“I doubt it. Not for you. For me, maybe.”

Louis snorts, crumpling up his joints. “Right. Your fucking boyfriend, that’s what.”

Zayn’s heart rate speeds right up the fucking wall the second Louis says that, and he watches Louis for a while to decipher whether he’s making a joke or not. Louis is just laughing, shaking his head and nudging Zayn’s side. Zayn manages a weak laugh, and rubs his hands against his jeans.

“Yeah, whatever man,” Zayn says, over the sound of his heart beating away in his throat. “Whatever.”

 **Where are you** he sends to Harry.

“Lou,” Zayn starts, staring at the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Did Harry say something? Like, anything. Or whatever,” he mumbles.

“What?” Louis blows smoke in Zayn’s direction. “Oh, shit. That one was almost a perfect circle.”

“C’mon,” Zayn says, pushing at Louis’ arm. “Did he? Yesterday or today. About me.”

“Um, he told me you’re a fucking chode,” Louis answers, distracted.

Zayn settles with that, letting himself believe that Harry didn’t really say anything to Louis, and Louis just likes saying things because he wishes for Zayn’s premature death by means of an anxiety attack. It makes the most sense. He sends Harry the same text again.

_I’m in front of the door. Is louis killing you or something? Chill out… open for me please :)_

Zayn bounces off the couch, chucking his phone in Louis’ direction.

“Is that my pizza?”

“Did you order a pizza?” Zayn asks, turning the locks.

“Didn’t I?”

Zayn pulls open the door.

“Hey,” Zayn greets Harry, breathless for no actual reason. He missed him, but he doesn’t say that. He should because it’s normal, Zayn says he misses Harry almost all the time, but it’ll be weird if he says it now. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Harry answers, a small smile on his lips, looking at Zayn only for a few seconds before moving his gaze behind Zayn’s head. “ _Louis_.”

“Harry,” Louis smiles, blowing him a kiss.

“Hi guys,” Harry repeats, making his way into the room, two paper bags of groceries in his hands. “Get along well? Learned to share play-doh?”

Zayn locks the door behind him, watching Harry slip off his shoes.

“Louis called me a chode and smoked the rest of your stash.”

Harry audibly gasps, and Louis swings a punch at Zayn’s shoulder.

“I mean, it’s fine,” Harry says, pushing the bags onto his counter. “I’m meeting my weed guy later this week.”

“Tight,” Zayn says, just to say something. He sticks a hand into one, pulling out asparagus.

“Oh my fucking god, dude,” he groans, dropping the package back in. Louis just laughs maniacally in the background.

Harry bites a smile down and blushes, the bridge of his nose and cheeks pinkening. “I’m on a health thing. A cleanse.”

“A diet?” Louis offers.

“Not a diet.”

“But asparagus,” Zayn laughs. “Whatever. You’re going on a cleanse but you’ll smoke. Ace.”

“Oh, please. You said it too,” Harry rolls his eyes, standing closer to Zayn just to pull at the zipper of his sweater. “You were all, ‘I think ‘m gonna do juice cleanses’. Remember that?”

Zayn hums, looking down at Harry, thinking only for a second how easily he could kiss him from the distance they’re standing. “I remember it well. Four months ago.”

“What can I say? I’m a late bloomer.”

“Late bloomer. Oh, dude,” Louis says. He starts playing another song out of the radio, pointing at the ceiling. “A fucking tune!”

_Late Bloomer - Jenny Lewis_

“He’s ridiculous,” Harry laughs, mostly to himself, as he pulls his groceries out of the bags.

Zayn watches him for a moment longer, telling himself _it’s not a relationship thing_. Best friends wait for one another to come home with groceries and help put them away. It’s a normal thing, and Harry’s cool with it. Zayn’s cool with it. They’re friends.

But, hypothetically, being more than friends is a normal thing too. If Zayn and Harry were actual boyfriends, it’d be… something. It wouldn’t be wrong. It’s fine, that’s a normal thing too, and it’s a normal thing for a lot of people.

Boys datings boys who buy groceries and vegetable samosas for one another. It’s whatever. It’s not Zayn, though. That’s not him, but it’s okay for someone else.

Still, Zayn might just have blurred that line by having kissed Harry. He can’t get away with kissing him and _not_ being a part of those guys who live normal lives with their boyfriends.

But Zayn isn’t gay. He just kissed Harry for a video. He kissed Harry for a video. A video, which is one they’ll probably film today. And they might kiss again, which is fine, and Zayn’s completely fine with that.

He can kiss Harry and not be in a relationship with him, because that’s another normal thing too. He can be straight _and_ kiss Harry _and_ not be in a relationship with him. Harry can feel the exact same way. It’s cool.

They’re friends.

“You alright?” Harry asks him, an apprehensive tone in his voice that Zayn could definitely be imagining. He doesn’t look at Zayn when he speaks.

“Yeah,” Zayn clears his throat, and shakes his head. “Sorry, yeah.”

He helps put the various dried fruit packages into their respected places in the pantry, easily shifting around the small kitchen alongside Harry. It’s achingly domestic, but Zayn doesn’t think about that at all. He just bobs his head to Jenny Lewis singing about falling in love with a girl she wishes she could have.

 

-

 

They’re all on Harry’s couch at 9 P.M., eating vegetable samosas and watching whatever Louis decided was a good idea to put on T.V.. Louis is in between Harry and Zayn, which is something Zayn didn’t _try_ to make happen, but he definitely waited for Harry to sit down before he did.

They’re all stoned, which is a miracle. They rarely get together to smoke.

“Can you get high… on top of your high?” Louis asks, when the movie dies down. “Since I was high earlier, and then again, now. Is that a thing? Am I double high?”

“No,” Harry drags the word out for a minute. “No. You’re just blessed.”

Zayn snorts a laugh, letting his eyes droop and dropping his head against the head of the couch. “Blessed.”

“I can’t believe you smoked my stash,” Harry mumbles around his joint.

“I can’t believe you had more in your coat pocket?” Louis replies.

“He’s prepared. It’s called preparation,” Zayn says.

Harry drops his head against the head of the couch too, and Louis follows suit. They’re all staring up at the ceiling with closed eyes.

“Do you think - okay. I’m going to say something about stars, Zayn, so don’t get insulted,” Louis says.

Zayn waves a hand.

“I don’t think they’re real. Like, honestly.”

“Shut the fuck up, man,” Zayn says, simultaneous with Harry’s “Shut up, Louis,” and laughter.

“No - honestly! They only come out at night? They’re small as shit, okay, and some are bigger than others. What a joke.”

“You know what we should do, guys?” Harry speaks up.

Zayn hums in reply.

“We should make a video.”

“I’ll leave if you put me in a video,” Louis says, blowing circles. Louis says this because he as some sort of issue with being seen in any video ever. He doesn’t even allow himself in photos.

“Like,  _paranoia_ ,” Zayn yawns.

“Okay,” Harry answers, unbothered, “then leave.”

“No, don’t leave,” Zayn protests silently. “You’re high. You’ll walk straight into a lake.”

“I’ll call the fucking - the fucking, those guys, okay? We live in a world where we can call people to drive you places. Keep up, Zayn.”

Zayn gives Louis what he thought was a middle finger, but turned out to be just a thumbs up.

Harry waves. “Get out of here.”

Louis pulls on his coat, waving at the both of them, and leaving within a matter of minutes.

“Thank fuck,” Harry sighs, moving so his head is on Zayn’s shoulder, and legs splayed over Zayn’s legs.

Zayn was at peace for a while, that while being the time when he forgot he wanted to make out with Harry for a few hours. That occasion of sanity flew right out the ceiling. Zayn plays it casual by wrapping a hand around Harry’s bare ankle, toying with the woolen bracelet there, which is something he does often.

It doesn’t seem like Harry remembered that whole thing that happened yesterday, because Zayn doubts he’d be rubbing his forehead on Zayn’s shoulder if he did.

But then, the thought of Harry forgetting about their kiss dawns on him. Did he not really care? Has Zayn been over thinking those series of events the entire time? It’s likely. Zayn’s anxiety is through the roof. The ceiling, rather. Zayn peels his eyes open and turns his head to look at Harry’s face.

He’s looking right back at Zayn, and Zayn’s heart beats as if he forget it was there. It’s constant thudding right against his chest - or maybe it’s just his migraine, his brain beating at all sides of his skull until it cracks a splinter and crawls right through.

“I’m so high,” Zayn says, looking at Harry’s pretty, warm face. He does want to kiss him, but it’ll tip him right over the edge. Then he thinks he’d want to suck his dick, which gives Zayn overwhelming and contrasting feelings of _what the fuck was that?_ and _why haven’t I done it already?_.

“Yeah, the usual,” Harry lifts his hand to drag it through Zayn’s hair. Zayn licks his lips, because they’re dry and his mouth has been hanging open. He looks at the small freckles speckled across Harry’s face, his nose and rosy cheeks. He looks at his lips, and feels like he’s been looking at them for the past four days. He knows he hasn’t, he knows that’s unrealistic, but he’s high. So, it’s like, _whatever_. It feels like it.

Harry says something that looks a lot like ‘do you want to kiss me?’, so Zayn leans back and asks him to repeat himself again.

“I asked if you wanted to film a video,” Harry says, his lips curling into a smile when he’s done.

“Only Thursday,” is Zayn’s answer, but Harry’s already pulling his legs off of Zayn’s lap and hopping off the couch.

“Early filming. Productive schedules, that’s what.”

Zayn blinks at the blank T.V. screen in front of him. “Yeah.”

He mourns the loss of the warmth on his lap only for a few seconds. Harry comes back from wherever he had gone and sets up his tripod in front of the couch. He zooms in on Zayn’s face until the quality in the dimly lit room is soft and grainy, because he likes it like that. He’s about to press the record button, until Zayn speaks up.

“Wait.”

The questions scream in his head, they’re on the tip of his tongue. Zayn just wants to know if Harry’s given him so much as a second thought since the night before.

“Hmm?” Harry blinks at Zayn.

He has every opportunity, with Harry’s attention only on him. They could talk it out. They could kiss again. They could go their separate ways, because Harry forget they actually did _that_ and doesn’t like Zayn in that way. He could easily fuck everything up, in the warmth of cinnamon candles and Harry’s humming playlist playing in the background.

Instead, Zayn just blinks back, because he’s spineless.

“Nevermind. Press record.”

“Okay,” Harry says, eyeing Zayn like he was thinking it, too. “We’re rolling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey lol!!! I'm sorry this took so long, but thanks if you're reading this!! see you in chapter 4 :-)
> 
> some songs in this chapter:  
> Pretty Little Birds - SZA  
> Late Bloomer - Jenny Lewis


	4. i'm feeling you feeling me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn finally brings up what he's been thinking about for the past two days. He feels terrible about it until he smokes with his friends again. Afterwards, he feels even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello, I'm here for my monthly update lol
> 
> some songs in this chapter:  
> Gueto de Gent - Phillipi & Rodrigo  
> Blk Wiccan - Zebra Katz  
> Only You - Mac Demarco  
> Virtue - Kllo (I love this with the scene it's paired with!!!)
> 
> [STREAM](https://open.spotify.com/user/softyware/playlist/7DqDP4QBci5pqjfqczNYmY) dusk till dawn :)

_Gueto de Gent - Phillipi & Rodrigo _

Zayn’s leaning against the side of Mylahore, one foot up against the concrete wall of the restaurant, the other grounded. One hand is in his pocket, jingling against his keychains and loose necklaces. The other, curling around his cigarette.

He smokes until he gets dizzy with it - he hasn’t eaten much all day, save for apple slices this morning to wake him up enough so that he could make it on time to his morning lecture.

Zayn presses his cigarette between his lips, breathing in, then attempts to blow rings again. He switches feet. The watch on his wrist ticks obnoxiously. Birds chirp, the rubber of tires scrape against the concrete as cars pass in front of him.

Zayn shuts his eyes for a moment, rolling his head against the concrete wall of Mylahore to his playlist until he thinks about how dirty the wall might be, then pulls his head up. He opens his eyes back up again to look at the sunny afternoon setting before him.

He wonders, momentarily, if Harry stood him up.

They planned to eat lunch together today when Zayn was sitting in his corner of the library earlier this morning, needlessly sulking over his own misery. Harry texted him asking if he wanted to get a _strawberry lemon mocktail_ at Mylahore with him.

Zayn said yes, because strawberry lemonade always sounds good.

Summer’s almost over, and Bradford doesn’t have many sunny days. Zayn will take melting ice cream cones and Louis’ PND playlist playing so loud it’s shaking the Volvo’s windows, sharing a condensing container of strawberry lemonade with Harry in the backseats ‘cause he loves that _zapping_ feeling at that one spot right behind his ears that makes his fingers curl. Harry makes the cutest face when he’s drinking something spritzy, his nose wrinkling all the way up. Zayn imagines his does the same too.

Zayn wonders again, glancing up at the cloudless sky, if Harry forgot about this.

He knows it’s unlikely - Harry’s the one who asked him out for lunch, so he couldn’t have forgotten, but it’s been forty five minutes that Zayn could have spent studying for what he _knows_ will be a quiz on Monday morning.

He could text him, easily. Zayn’s phone is sitting in his back pocket empty of any sort of notifications. He could call. But Zayn’s chilling out, he’s smoking, he’s not stressed. The sun is warm and the air smells of a bakery opening its backdoors after cooking an entire batch of croissants.

He doesn’t need to call Harry, he can wait. Harry’s probably putting on a fucking scarf.

He thinks of just that - Harry pulling a scarf around his neck, wrapping four different ways until he decides _no, this way is the prettiest._  Zayn used to be right there with him when Harry was into the whole bandanas and wraps in his hair, then he migrated to cutting his hair and hanging scarves loosely around his neck.

Harry’s pretty, despite his fashion sense being a complete wreck. He smiles and it makes the entire outfit. He so much as _laughs_ and everything around him blooms into color. _Everything._

Zayn drags a hand through his hair, watching two guys pass by him, catching sight of one laughing at the other.  He wonders if they’re in the same boat he’s in, if they’ve kissed a few days back and neither one of them are bringing it up. Instead, just go on a lunch date because one of them begged the other two while he was in the library getting ready to study.

It’s not an actual a date, though. The first automatic defense that comes flying to Zayn’s head is that _they’re not on a date,_ that’s not what this is. They’re getting lunch together because Harry’s got free time and Zayn likes when he pays.

Zayn reaches to rub at his temples, his eyes dropping once again.

He shouldn’t be at such a battle with himself, he thinks. It _is_ a date, lunch dates are normal and there isn’t anything wrong with calling what Harry and him are doing a date. They aren’t dating and that’s what ought to be mentioned. Not that he would be the one to mention it. No one cares as much as Zayn does. It’s too much to think about and he’s fucking starving.

Zayn peels his eyes open again, staring down at his feet. He sees the toe cap of a pair of faded red converse stood across from his, and nearly blacks out from shock until he hears Harry’s faint, muffled laughter.

“You might kill me,” Zayn manages to say, the moment he catches his breath and looks up at Harry. “You might give me a heart attack one day.”

Harry’s hiding a smile beneath his hands.

“You aren’t slick,” Zayn tells him.

“I still managed to scare you, though,” Harry answers, poking a finger at Zayn’s chest. “Don’t say I didn’t. I saw that jolt.”

“Alright, bro.”

Zayn drops his cigarette on the ground, letting Harry put it out with his shoe.

“Bad habit,” Harry sing-songs.

“You’re ugly,” Zayn answers.

Harry guffaws, bumping shoulder with Zayn. He’s in such a weirdly happy mood. Zayn wonders if he’s smoked a little before coming to see him. He always laughs too much when he smokes. Zayn thinks of asking him.

“You know what I - oh, do you like my scarf?” Harry pulls at what looks to be a soft silk scarf, patterned with red and black stripes. It’s wrapped twice around Harry’s neck, the frayed ends falling to his collarbone. “It’s silk,” he says.

“I knew it,” Zayn clicks his tongue. “It’s cool. Not weather appropriate, though?”

Harry pulls at the sleeve of Zayn’s jacket. “Says you? You’re wearing fucking leather!”

“It’s fashion. And it’s light.”

“Listen, listen, listen. Fall is coming,” Harry answers. Zayn pushes himself off the wall with his one propped foot, moving to walk in the direction of the entrance to Mylahore.

“No, wait,” Harry complains, tugging at Zayn’s sleeve. “Let’s walk around a little. You’re already hungry? C’mon, there’s a bench.”

“You don’t want to eat?”

“I do, but it’s only, like,” Harry shrugs. “Nine-ish? We’ve still got time. Are you in a rush?”

“I was hungry.”

“Per usual,” Harry replies, turning a corner, his hand still wrapped around Zayn’s forearm. They walk like that until Zayn lets the idea get to his head, the idea of someone seeing and flashing them a dirty look, or rather, stopping and asking if they’re dating. Zayn tugs his arm out of Harry’s hand when he thinks about it long enough. Harry barely seems to notice, slipping his hand into his own jean pocket.

“Is Mylahore even open?”

“It was open. You’ve decided to walk the opposite direction.”

“For a bench. I want to talk on a bench in the park.”

“Why’s that?”

“Dunno,” he says, picking up his pace. “I just want to talk to you.”

It’s then the thought of Harry wanting to talk about the whole _thing_ two nights ago finally dawns on Zayn. Immediately, he feels panicky, the few apple slices in his stomach going sour.

Zayn was entirely convinced Harry had forgotten about it - he spent so long hoping Harry wouldn’t bring it up and now that he has, Zayn has half a mind to turn on his heels and walk in the opposite direction.

Nothing notable happened yesterday. He and Harry just filmed a video - Harry spent a majority of the time talking about some actress in a movie, Zayn added commentary and hand gestures, and that was it. Harry made himself dinner, Zayn saw his way out.

Eventually, Zayn knows that sooner or later one of them would have brought it up. Better Harry than him - less wringing of hands, pulling at hair, and stuttering through sentences.

Zayn breathes in for a few seconds, holds it in until his throat hurts, and breaths out again.

He looks at Harry, who’s walking in a crooked line and kicking at pebbles. He looks up at the sky and reminds himself that if anything goes wrong, he could always wish for the sky to swallow him whole. Zayn pulls his keychain out of his pocket, counting each key three times over. He only has six, he’ll always have six.

“Isn’t it cute?” Harry asks, when he comes to an abrupt stop. Zayn nearly runs into him until he picks his head up, dropping his keychain into his pocket and looking across the road at a small park with four benches on every end. In the middle, there’s a playground sitting atop a small patch of grass, warming underneath the sun.

“It’s - sure,” Zayn agrees. He feels his neck dampening against the collar of his jacket; he contemplates taking it off as he tugs at it. He walks beside Harry as they cross the street. “It’s pretty cute.”

“I used to go here with David,” Harry says, over the rumble of a bus passing the road behind them. “You remember? My old roomie.”

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, sitting beside Harry on the wobbly, rusty bench. He feels ill, physically nauseous and likely to vomiting on his own shoes at any second. Zayn twirls a finger around the necklaces in his pocket and runs a hand over his face.

“He always drew the kids on the slides and…. and whatever,” Harry waves a hand, turning to look at Zayn. He sticks his tongue out. Soft wind blows a few of his longer curly strands across his cheekbone. Zayn reaches to move them, but instead drops his hand, shoving them between shaking thighs. Harry smiles a little, cheeks pink, tilting his head.

“Was he good?” Zayn asks.

“I never looked,” he shakes his head. Harry moves closer to him, sitting so their thighs are pressing right next to one another. Zayn can’t tell if he’s cold or hot - he’s sweating underneath the thin shirt he’s wearing under his jacket but he’s covered in goosebumps. Maybe it’s the jacket, he thinks.

“They’re gonna build a fountain,” Harry gestures towards the playground. “Get rid of the playground and build a giant fountain in replacement.”

Zayn hums in reply, pulling off his jacket.

“I don’t think they should. Let the kids play, you know? But if they add a fountain, then they should have ducks. It’s almost mandatory, innit.”

Zayn doesn’t answer because this is fucking small talk. Harry’s avoiding talking about _whatever_ , but Zayn won’t be the one to bring it up. He sits his jacket in his lap, hiding his hands beneath the mound it makes.

“I like your drawings, though,” Harry says in the silence. “It’d be pretty if you drew fountains, you know.”

Zayn snorts. “I can’t draw fountains. I can barely draw trees.”

Harry nudges Zayn in the side, pinching him until Zayn swats his hand away.

“This is what you wanted to talk about?” Zayn asks, looking down at his lap, then up at the playground. “Renovations.”

“Yeah. Well, no,” Harry shrugs. “Yeah. I just wanted to talk.”

“Just talk, man,” Zayn says, dragging a hand through his hair. He thinks of putting some music on, just to drown out all the noise in his head. He nervously taps his feet on the dying, patchy grass. “Just like, speak.”

“I’m just so fucking tired. You know?” Harry speaks facing his lap, pulling at the tears on his jeans. “Hopeless and helpless. Like _Nothing Happens Until It Happens To You_ helpless.”

“Oh. Harry,” Zayn says, pressing a hand to Harry’s shoulder to look him in the face until he springs up off the bench, the chair squeaking. Zayn squints up at him, standing as well. “Hey. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he shrugs. He digs his feet into the grass. “I don’t - let’s go eat. That’s something we can do, yeah?”

 

 

They walk to Mylahore together, side by side, _Converse_ and elbows knocking against each other. The breeze is gentle, one Zayn is grateful for, because his ears and cheeks have been burning since they got up from the bench in the park.

Harry is wearing Zayn’s jacket because he asked him to and Zayn didn’t think twice before handing it over. They don’t talk to one another while they walk, but Harry breaks silence by muttering to himself every few seconds.

The door jingles when they enter. They sit in the same table they always sit in when they go to Mylahore - a corner half booth half table. Zayn sits in the booth because he’s afraid that someday, the chair will snap from pressure and collapse underneath him. As a ritual, Harry takes the wooden seat and always presses a hand to the chair before sitting.

The silence stretches on even longer when they’re seated, after they’ve both gotten their food. Harry, an appetizer of chicken pakora, and Zayn, chicken biryani in a _to go_ box. Harry didn’t bring up their strawberry lemonade mocktail, so neither of them ordered it. Zayn just sips on water, watching Harry scroll through his phone sitting face up on the table. He’s obviously not doing anything. It’s meaningless scrolling.

The door jingles, Harry sips his mineral water through a straw, and Zayn crosses his legs. Harry’s foot accidentally bumps against it; he looks up at Zayn through his lashes and smiles, then winks, and kicks him again.

“Sorry,” he says.

Zayn just shrugs, smiling when Harry kicks him a third time.

They both fall into silence again.

 

 

It’s been a solid thirty minutes since they’ve walked in. Zayn’s answered like, three emails, and Harry started watching a Youtube video with the sound on mute. Zayn’s still filled with that anxious, unsettling, and completely unresolved feeling from before. He thinks about how long it’ll take him to get over how he’s been feeling ever since Wednesday. Zayn knows himself well, he knows he won’t _forget_ about it. Not unless he brings it up soon, or Harry brings it up soon, or the sky swallows him whole.

Zayn could potentially get around never having to talk about kissing with Harry. Realistically, he could. He could leap into traffic and not have constant thoughts of whether Harry thinks about him as much as Zayn thinks of him.

But, Zayn’s not like that. He wants to be the guy who faces his problems, he's getting there. Also - he fucking loves Harry. He doesn’t want to lose him. He doesn’t. Hopefully, if Harry doesn’t hate him, Harry feels the same way. Especially not over kissing once and letting it go to his head since Harry’s the first guy he kissed. Communication is key, or whatever. Zayn’s a fucking adult - of some sorts. He can have a conversation with Harry about their relationship. Zayn’s _confident_ enough to do that.

“Harry?” Zayn speaks up. He bobs his straw around the cubes in his drink. Harry doesn’t flinch, like he didn’t hear him, and immediately all the bravery Zayn was feeling simmers away. “Hey.”

“Yes?” Harry gives him a glance and puts his phone facedown on the table. He crosses his arms and straightens his back. “Sorry. Zayn. What. Yeah. Zayn. Yes.”

“Remember Wednesday?” Zayn asks, then clears his throat.

Harry waves a dismissive hand and bites his pakora. “Um, I think. Vaguely.”

“Alright. Well, I’ve been - ” Zayn scoffs a laugh, thinking of saying _I’ve been thinking about it every fucking day since then,_  but decides against doing so. “I remember it well, I mean. When we kissed.”

Harry doesn’t blink, he just crosses his one hand over the other. Then again.

“Okay, yeah. I remember.”

“What was… like, what it - sorry, what - ” Zayn shakes his head, dragging a finger over his right eyebrow and looking at the barista for a moment. He looks back at Harry, who’s still sitting in silence, then shuts his eyes.

“ _Sorry_. What was it all about?”

Harry kicks his leg against Zayn’s again, their _Converse_ bumping. Zayn opens his eyes again.

“What do you mean,” Harry asks, making it sound like one long, dragged out word. He sits his chin in his palm, reaching for his straw with his tongue.

“I mean, what was it? Like - like, whatever, would we do it again?”

Harry blinks slowly, and Zayn wraps his hand around the cold condensation of his glass. He closes his eyes for a moment, hearing the jingle of the restaurant doors.

“Hey,” Harry coaxes, fingers bumping against Zayn’s knuckles. “It was - what do you mean? It was a question answer type video.”

Zayn just blinks at Harry, watching Harry watch him. He feels a blush creep up his neck, and wraps his damp hand around it.

“You remember that? You were… you were cool with it,” Harry says, his voice soft with confusion.

“Yeah,” he says. Zayn pulls at a strand behind his ear. “I remember it.”

“It wasn’t _bad._  It was fine, I thought,” Harry laughs hesitantly. “I thought you… it wasn’t bad.”

He re-positions himself in his chair twice before looking at his hands on the table.

“ _Um_. Did you? Zayn? Unless you thought something else of it.”

“No!” Zayn blurts, “No, no. No, I was just overthinking. I was overthinking it and - and everything. Sorry. Jesus, man. Sorry.”

Zayn manages a smile back. It’s easy enough, because Harry lights up in the slightest and returns back to staring at his fingernails.

It’s fucking awkward then, because Zayn made it so. He was adamant on bringing up something so miniscule to Harry.

When Zayn leaves Mylahore, telling Harry that he’s gonna spend some time studying after denying Harry’s offer to hang out with him and Louis at his flat, it’s all he can think about.   _Best friends kiss all the time_. They do. They kiss _all_ of the time. It’s never weird for them. It’s never fucking weird for them. For everyone else, the feeling of nerves and excitement before you lean in, then all of that imploding in on itself - that feeling is normal. You don’t kiss your best friend thinking any more of it being just _that_.

Zayn can’t understand why, then, he feels so much more. 

 

 

_Blk Wiccan - Zebra Katz_

Zayn spends his dinner watching the _Broad City_ episode where Ilana and Abbi eat dinner together. Louis texts him telling him it was very ‘meta’ and ‘inception-like’ that he was doing so, then FaceTiming Zayn to call him a proper loser for deciding against hanging out with them tonight since _someone_ bought a new pipe.

“It’s metallic and when you turn it, it changes color. Is that metallic?”

“Um, yeah,” Zayn answers, playing a dots app on his phone.

“You aren’t looking. It says you’re paused, asshole. Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are - oh _hello_ , pretty man.”

“Annoying as fuck,” Zayn says, taking another bite.

“What’s that you’re eating?” Louis’ camera is positioned to where only his nose and the rest of his face his showing. He flares his nostrils. “It smells great.”

“Chicken biryani. What are you eating?”

“Kush, kush, baby,” Louis shows off his pipe again, twisting it under a lamp. “Check it. Can you see the colors changing?”

“Nah, man. Where are you?”

“Harry’s bathroom.” Louis straightens the phone to where half of his body is showing, the top of the shower behind his head.

“Did you grow twenty feet?”

“I’m on the counter.” The phone shakes a little.

Zayn tries not to laugh too hard so he doesn’t choke over his rice. “Get off the fucking counter!”

“I was…. I was cleaning. I was showing you the colors changing. Fluorescent! Is that it?”

“I don’t think so, man,” Zayn smiles, returning back to his dots app. “What was the - ”

“Zayn, come back. Come back. Where are you? Where are you? Zayn, I’ll jump.”

Zayn returns back to the FaceTime app to show Louis his ringed middle finger.

“Why didn’t you come over, man,” Louis complains, then a _huff_ as he jumps off the counter, an _ouch_ following suit.

“It’s fun to smoke with you. Weed makes you chilled.”

“I don’t… yeah, I don’t know,” Zayn pulls hair through his fingers, dragging some over his face. “Just wasn’t feeling it.”

“Harry was bummed.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s been all jumpy. He keeps referencing that one book he’s read like four years ago.”

“ _Nothing Happens Until It Happens To You._ Yeah, I think he’s stressed.”

“Oh, shit, yeah. That’s his depression book.”

“It isn’t. It’s not. He does not have depression.”

Zayn moves with his phone, putting his bowl and utensils in the sink. Louis audibly flicks his lighter over his pipe.

“How would you know?” Louis asks. Zayn thinks to himself for a second, then drops the thought.

“Is he home?” Zayn asks, migrating back to the only warm spot on his couch.

“Is who home?”

“Harry.”

“Yeah. Bro, come over.”

“Then why are you hiding in his bathroom? Go hang out with him. You said he’s jumpy.”

“He _is_ jumpy. He’s anxious about whatever, I don’t know. He’s being all bambi-faced and frowny, it’s turning me off. I was fixing bottles in here. And I wanted to show you my pipe in the light. Come over.”

“I might,” Zayn sighs, dragging it out. “I don’t know. He might be upset because of me.”

“What’d you do, cut your hair?”

“No, we just… whatever. I don’t know why he’s upset, though. He didn’t act upset earlier.”

“Earlier?” Louis starts, then drops his phone. “Fuck. Hey, Harry’s calling.”

“FaceTime?”

“No, he’s using his voice. You know, we have those? Technology dependent, all of youse.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, smiling softly. “Okay, Louis.”

Louis starts off with a thick Scottish accent, scrunching his entire face up and jabbing at the camera. “The lot ah youse - ”

“Alright, Louis,” Zayn laughs. “Shut up. I’m hanging up.”

“Come on over, mate. Come over. I miss you. I’ll suck your dick.”

Zayn flushes deep red. “You won’t.”

“You’re damn right I won’t. Come over. Come - all fucking _right_ , Harry!”

Louis hangs up by dropping the phone on accident.

 

 

Zayn walks to Harry’s apartment, per usual. His Volvo, sitting in Harry’s designated guest parking spot, greets him when he arrives.

Zayn makes a mental note to create a contract with Louis explaining _who_ gets to have the car and _when_ , because Zayn’s been walking places for too long.

He knocks twice on the door, doing his breathing exercise twice over, rolling his neck, and reaching to knock again until the door is swung open before him. 

_Only You - Mac Demarco_

“Zayn!” Louis shouts, swallowing him in a hug. Louis is infectious with his contagious smile and grabby hands. Zayn’s pulled into Harry’s apartment, loud music pouring from the radio, a thin fog of weed clouding the room. He vaguely hears Harry say “woo hoo!” and points in his direction, turned back to Louis when he hands Zayn his pipe, shutting the door behind him and swaying to the music.

“Hey man,” Zayn greets Louis, smiling back. He tugs at his jacket off and takes the pipe.

“Isn’t it sick?” Louis asks, wiggling his brows and shaking his shoulders. “ _I’m done crying over her._ ”

“It’s - yeah, it’s sick,” Zayn answers, “Has Harry started?”

“Jesus,” Louis snorts, pulling Zayn to the couch with him. Harry gives him a close lipped smile when they come his way, picking up the pillows that were crowding the couch and tossing them on his rugs to make room for him.

“What a gentleman,” Harry says, his voice laced with something Zayn can’t describe, when he takes the pipe from Zayn.

“You know _I_ would wait for you. Louis, on the other hand… ” Harry takes a hit, holding it for a few seconds before he blows it all out saying “Louis fucking hot boxed this apartment.”

“Sure, Harry,” Zayn answers, thinking nothing of it. He takes it from Harry, lighting the bowl and taking a hit. He knows it’s placebo effect or just his anxiety or _whatever_ , but immediately his shoulders fall, his cheeks warming from the smoke. The music gets louder, drowning everything else out, the guitar thrum replacing the thrum of his own heart. Zayn moves to take his jacket off, before he remembered he already took it off, and just fists his hands in his t-shirt.

“ _Lay down,_   _lay down_ , _lay down_ ,” Louis hums, turning in circles in front of the two of them. “You know what, Zayn?”

“What’s up, man,” Zayn answers, sinking into the couch beside Harry. He thinks of nothing, nothing but Harry’s bare ankle crossed with his, how sweet weed is, and how soft Harry’s furniture can be.

“I went to the pharmacy today, right. Bought some chapstick.”

“You already told this story,” Harry sighs, blowing smoke out with it. He hands Zayn the pipe.

“Okay, but to you. Zayn wasn’t here. I want to tell him ‘bout the sun.”

Harry belts a laugh, clapping once. Zayn takes the pipe and breathes in.

“I know about the sun, man,” he says, blowing smoke towards the ceiling, dropping his head against the couch and dropping his eyes. He feels himself falling into that calm, chill state of mind he wishes he were in hours ago.

“This chapstick was mango and _sunrise_ flavored, mate,” Louis says, enunciating each word with a jab of his hands. “ _Mango and sunrise_. Like, if the sun tasted like mango. If the sun tasted like _that…_ I want to go to the sun.”

“You’re full of shit!”

“Louis, man,” Zayn smiles. “You wouldn’t. Trust me.”

“You both can watch me,” he says, going to the radio. He turns switches it off, turning the T.V. channel to the _SciFy_ network.

 

 

All three of them smoke together for god knows how long, Louis sitting next to Harry sitting next to Zayn on his soft couch. Zayn isn’t able to keep track of time _ever_ when he’s around them. They use Harry’s bong for a while, switching to their own glass pipes and then to rolling each other half-assed joints, sprinkled with kief and hash oil. They’ve been listening to _Telepathy_ by Christina Aguilera on repeat because once it came on, Harry refused to let Louis change it to anything else.

They ordered pizza, probably. Zayn’s pretty sure Louis did it. The T.V. has been changed from the _SciFy_ channel to _The Great British Bake Off_ reruns, _The Voice,_  and then whatever was uploaded last on Zayn’s Netflix account. Which, apparently, was also the _Black Mirror_.

“Dude,” Harry had said, pressing a finger to his and Zayn’s foreheads. “We’re like, we’re synced up. ‘Cause me too.”

They sit in silence with one another, high out of their minds. Louis started talking about stars again, and then about how he really despised the way the flash on cameras flash. Zayn didn’t speak for hours - or, it felt like it’s been hours - until his joint was completely burned out.

“Dude,” he said when the stub fell on his jean. “Fuck.”

“S’alright,” Louis says, uncrossing his legs and standing. “We should order pizza.”

“Didn’t you already?” Harry asks.

“What the fuck are you on about? Dude, are you high?” Louis starts, about to crack the absolute fuck up until the someone knocks on the door and he nearly jumps out of his skin when he turns to the sound.

Both Harry and Zayn laugh really hard at that, laughing through the whole exchange of money-for-food until Louis comes back holding whatever he had ordered. Zayn’s laughing so hard it feels like his chest is gonna collapse in on itself, but he’ll keep laughing because he’s so high he’d probably be numb to the feeling.

“I’m gonna fall apart,” Zayn complains, when he’s calmed down. Harry’s still flushed red, a grin on his face.

“You’re both dicks,” Louis laments, already shoving half a pizza slice into his mouth. “ _Eugh_. It’s pepperoni.”

 

 

In a matter of minutes, their two pizzas, three boxes of wings, one pasta bowl, and all the different flavors of breadsticks they had are devoured. But it might have been hours, Zayn doesn’t know. He hasn’t so much as glanced at a clock since he’s walked in here, he doesn’t know.

“Fuck,” Zayn yawns, stretching his arms to the ceiling until it feels like his fingertips are touching it. “I’m done. I’m... chilling.”

“You are,” Harry agrees, hitting Zayn’s side weakly. “You’re _so_ chill. It’s so cool.”

“You keep making that fucking pun,” Louis says around a mouthful of bread, putting on his music again. “Yo, we should play a game.”

_Virtue - Kllo_

“Yeah, whatever,” Zayn says.

“Truth or dare?”

“ _Fuck_ yes,” Harry says. Zayn just shrugs, feeling the couch dip when Louis sits beside Harry again. “Okay, I go first. Louis, how much have you been smoking?”

“That’s not the fucking way you - ”

Zayn blurts out laughing before Louis can finish, running a hand over his face. The music Louis’ playing - with the low beats and electric hums makes Zayn feels like he’s getting high all over again. He loves it.

“I’m gonna go, ‘cause Harry doesn’t know… he doesn’t know anything.”

Harry flips him off. “I can kick you out.”

“Listen, Harry,” Louis says, sitting upright and pointing a finger in his direction, mocking seriousness.

“Truth or dare.”

“I’m an honest man, I’ve got nothing to hide,” Harry says, flipping the very short hair he has.

“That wasn’t the question.”

Zayn throws an arm over Harry’s shoulder before he thinks about it.

“Read between the lines, Louis,” Zayn says. “He wants _dare_ , obviously.”

“Okay, dare.”

“No,” Harry complains, swatting a hand at both of them. “Truth, I meant.”

“Okay, fuck, I’ve ought to… I haven’t thought of anything. You go, Zayn.”

“Right, Lou. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to… give me the Volvo. Actually.”

Louis throws his head back when he laughs, clapping and swinging fists at Zayn. 

“It’s my turn! It’s my fucking turn!”

“Dude, actually? ‘Cause it’s been like a month. My _Converse_ aren’t made for walking.”

Harry laughs when he says that, making Louis laugh, making Zayn laugh until he starts hurting again.

“Jesus, stop! Don’t make me laugh. My chest hurts.”

“Okay, shut up, I’ll give it to you today. How about that? Tonight, yeah?”

“I’m too high for that.”

“Whatever. Harry, you go.”

“Okay,” Harry says, running his bottom lip through his teeth. “Okay, ummmmmmmm.”

“Today,” Zayn adds, making Louis laugh.

“I was about to say! I was about to say - right, well, guess we’ll have to wait an hour…”

“Oh, I see. You’re both dicks. Truth or dare, Louis.”

“Why’s it all aimed at me?”

Harry turns, his back facing Louis and fully facing Zayn.

“Right then,” he says, a smile tugging his cheeks. “Truth or dare, Zayn.”

“Um,” Zayn says, smiling back. “Whatever. I mean, truth.”

“Okay.” Harry spends a moment thinking, it’s obvious because the smoke coming from how hard he’s thinking is bellowing out the top of his head. His lip twists a little when he’s in thought, his eyes looking up towards the ceiling.

He’s really pretty, Zayn thinks, and it’s a thought that hasn’t occurred to him all night. Harry’s wearing an oversized, thick, beige wool sweater that’s partially hanging onto his shoulders, and compression pants that are _probably_ from the women's section. His whole face is warm and pink, green eyes hazy and lips plush from pressing them against so many joints.

Zayn realizes that he does, desperately, completely, and utterly, want him.

“I dare you to - I mean, I truth you? To tell me,” Harry stutters, a smile still playing on his lips, leaning towards Zayn. “Tell me if you liked our kiss.”

“The what?” Louis says. When Zayn goes wide-eyed, and Harry bites his lip shyly, glancing at him and Louis, Louis repeats his question again.

“The fucking what?” he shrieks. There’s a second Zayn thinks Louis might act aggressively, but the moment he does, Louis has broken out into a grand smile, jumping and doing a stupid dance around the rug.

“You’ve fuckin’ kissed! You two kissed!”

“It was for fun,” Harry defends, in unison with Zayn’s “yeah, we did.”

Louis immediately settles, kneeling between them both and looking at the with a serious expression. “Was it like… are you two dating?”

Harry scoffs, simultaneous to Zayn’s outright and blunt _no_.

“Oh, fuck,” Louis says. Harry just laughs. “It was just boring, then.”

“Let him answer the truth,” Harry says.

Zayn gazes at the both of them, shrugging and nodding his head in a whatever, yeah, kind of way.

Harry lights up when he does, diverting his eyes to pulling at his sweater, Louis laughing and clapping.

“Did you actually?” Harry asks.

“Sure, yeah. You’re a fine kisser.”

“Cool. Okay. Um,” Harry laughs into his hand.

Louis whistles wildly. “Alright,” he says. “My turn, then. I’ve thought of one.”

“What’dya want,” Harry says, reaching for pizza crust.

“Truth or dare. _Harry._ ”

“Dare, actually.”

“Cool. Dare you to kiss Zayn, right now. Ten seconds minimum.”

“Okay,” Harry shrugs, and before Zayn can even register what’s happening, Harry has his arms wrapped around Zayn’s neck, climbed into his lap, and placed his lips on his.

Zayn kisses back out of automatic instinct, all the feelings of _oh shit oh shit oh shit it’s happening_ erupt immediately and he nearly screams into Harry’s mouth.

He hears Louis in the background egging them on, screaming - actually screaming, rooting them on and jumping to the beat of the music. Zayn’s going to lose his mind, probably, Harry’s soft soft lips on his and they’re kissing. They’re kissing, they’re really doing it, Harry’s mouth warm and tongue even softer. He tastes like hash oil, sweet and bitter, like he did the first night they kissed.

Zayn’s holding him so tight that his fingers are going through the holes of his sweater, pressing against Harry’s skin. He isn’t keeping track of time, he doesn’t know when they’ve started or when they’re going to stop, he just knows he doesn’t _want_ to. Harry’s nose bumps against his and Zayn’s heart is being fucking shaken like a bone in the jaws of a dog in his chest.

He fucking loves him, he thinks, when the next firework in his head explodes. Harry makes a sound that replays in Zayn’s mind until it melts into his next thought. He’s _infatuated_ with him. He wants this forever, he could drown in this forever, his hands pressed against Harry and Harry pressing even closer to him as if he could get any closer. Zayn realizes, bleakly, that nothing, absolutely nothing will save him now.

Louis’ faded shouting comes pulls Zayn back into reality, and unfortunately, anxiety overruns any feeling he’s possibly feeling at that moment.

All he can think of doing is pulling himself away from Harry - and he does so. In seconds, he’s at the door, Harry and Louis’ voices muddled out in the sounds of all his thoughts.

He’s pulling on his jacket and yanking the front door open when he hears them call his name, shutting it behind him as quickly as possible as if he left every screaming thought behind him.

He didn’t, he knows. Zayn’s still screaming at himself when he rushes away from the door, from Harry’s entire apartment complex, from every emotion he’s wanted to feel bursting and coming to life.

He got scared. No, he isn’t scared. He’s a bitch. Harry’s going to fucking hate him. Louis is going to kill him. If he doesn’t kill himself first.

“No,” Zayn says aloud, standing in the middle of an empty street at 1:03 A.M., clutching hair in both of his fists with his eyes squeezed shut.

“No, I’m fine,” he says. “I’m fine.”

He has six keys. The sky's above him. He ruined what he wanted in a matter of seconds, all because - _because of what?_

Zayn turns, as if he’ll go back again, but he’s too far. The square light of Harry’s window is still illuminated, visible even from as far as Zayn’s standing. Unless he’s hallucinating.

Zayn touches his skin. He touches his damp neck, his hot burning cheeks, and stomps his tingling feet in the silence of the night. He thinks about how guilty he feels in this moment, how Harry must feel. He thinks about the regret he’ll feel tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that, and every single fucking tomorrow from this moment.

Zayn looks up into the sky. He wishes, desperately, to disappear.


	5. nothing until

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn thinks about his sexuality for a while, avoiding calls and texts until he mistakenly answers one.

_Scarf - Heinali_

To Zayn’s demise, he didn’t disappear. He quickly made it back to his flat alive and dismal, locked the door behind him, threw his jacket on his floor, and dove face-first into his couch.

Zayn thinks of many things, like crying or screaming. He thinks of where his many many misplaced stress balls might be. He thinks of taking his anxiety medication, doing yoga, going out for a run, sleeping in for twelve hours, or eating chocolates until he gets sick.

His T.V. is still streaming some late-night show, the host making a punchline and the audience offering pity laughs. Zayn curls into himself, fisting his hands in his hair. He thinks of how much he hates himself, how much Harry hates him, and how much Louis hates him. He thinks of his mother, father, all of his sisters; how disappointed they would be in him if they knew how badly he wanted to attempt again.

At some point, Zayn falls asleep. He isn’t beautiful when he does; it’s not picture perfect, the moon isn’t shining through his window and illuminating the room with soft blue. Nothing’s poetic about him. He feels dirty when his eyes fall, his anxiety rattling through every fucking bone in his body. He falls asleep with tear streaks on his skin and his nails pressing idents into his palms.

 

-

 

_How to be less overdramati_

It’s Saturday, 7:22 A.M.. Zayn’s computer screen blinks back at him, _Did you mean: How to be less_ **_over drama_ **

Zayn retypes: _sexuality_

He chooses the first _Wikipedia_ article he sees, skimming through. He clicks on _Sexual Attraction._

 _“Sexual attraction is_ _attraction_ _on the basis of_ _sexual desire_ _or the quality of arousing such interest.”_

Zayn closes out the tab.

 

-

 

 

It’s 2 P.M.. Zayn chews on a gummy bear as he watches Louis’ fifth FaceTime request fade off his phone. The notifications add up immediately, totaling six missed calls from him and two texts from Harry.

Zayn feels fucking terrible because he thinks he’s being mean by ignoring them, but it makes him feel worse to think of what they would talk about if he chose to answer. He contemplates going back to his dots app and playing until his battery drains, but he fears Louis calling again and accidentally swiping the ‘accept’ button. Zayn ends up staring at the _Google_ app on his phone when he’s out of gummies, his finger hovering over the search bar.

He types: _anxiety over sexuality_

He reads an article explaining sexual anxieties - an actual, real life thing, apparently.

_“Sexual anxiety is often part of social anxiety (see the article on 'social phobias' on this site) where people may feel that they are inferior to others in some important way or where they are too concerned about other people's reactions to them.”_

The second part makes Zayn think about yesterday, when Harry linked arms with his as they were walking and all Zayn could think about was how other people might’ve seen it. But that’s justified, isn’t it? It’s fair to be worried.

Zayn goes back to Google, typing in: _am i gay_

He takes an embarrassing amount of quizzes, until he lands on articles, one explaining an entire spectrum of sexualities one could land on.

Zayn Googles: _sexuality spectrum_

He reads through a shorter article on the Human sexuality spectrum, defining it as a “ _continuum that accounts for every variation of_ _human sexuality_ _/ identity without necessarily labelling or defining all of them._ ”

He keeps reading, until he falls on a section that he finds himself reading over and over again: “ _This system is found to be useful for many who do not like to be limited to a label. Many people find themselves deviating from a strict label. The pressure to place a label on a person’s sexual or gender preferences causes stress for the person who may not fit on one of societies provided labels.”_

Zayn thinks, sure - he’s pretty fucking stressed over maybe being gay. It isn’t bad, it’s not wrong, but he doesn’t… he isn’t sure about all of that yet.

He can’t help but think about those three girls he’s kissed before in the past. He fell in love with each one of them, the kind of helpless head-over-heels in love, and still, not much has changed over the past years; Zayn will see a girl walk past him on campus and find himself thinking about her for hours after. So he isn’t _gay_. Unless that’s not love - then he’s not in love with Harry, because he finds himself thinking about Harry for fucking hours as well. Then again, Zayn read about sexualities changing overtime and realizing you might be this or you might be that and he just doesn’t know.

 _But_. Not having a label seems fine. It’s almost perfect; he doesn’t know what he is at all. He doesn’t know if he wants to be anything. When he thinks about it, he just wants to kiss Harry. For real.

He reads over the few “ _commonly labeled sexualities_ ”. Many of them he knows, heterosexual, bisexual, lesbian, and so on. When he reads the definition of queer, _umbrella term that fits all people who have non-heterosexual attractions_ , he almost laughs at how simple it sounds. He thinks, only for a second, _maybe it's fake_. Zayn's never actually heard of queer before. But then, stirring with the hopefulness in him, he thinks that it could just as easily be real.

He wriggles his shoulders, the blanket he wrapped around himself falling to the floor, sits up a little straighter, and re-reads the definition.

He feels his heart pound a little harder, but it’s not because he’s afraid.

 

-

 

Zayn's ass started hurting on his desk chair, so he retreated back to his bed, his blanket pulled all the way up to his chin.

Zayn reads more about the queer sexuality, scrolling through articles on how it differs from being ‘gay’, queer theory, queer as a slur, and the many, many, many definitions the lone word holds. He’s in the middle of downloading an article explaining the five different ways ‘queer’ is defined to his phone when Louis’ name shows up on his screen and he accidentally swipes accept, holding his breath.

“Don’t hang up, don’t hang up, don’t hang up, don’t hang up - ”

“I won’t,” Zayn answers, the first thing he’s said aloud all day. He sounds ill.

“Jesus, Zayn,” Louis sighs, and that’s all he says for a while. There’s sounds of him shuffling, blankets being moved around, a cup clinking when it hits another solid object, and a cat meowing.

“Is that Pinkie?” Zayn asks, frowning. Louis has a cat named Pinkie, who has a patches of missing fur near her paws. Zayn misses her a lot.

“Yeah, yeah. You haven’t seen her in forever.”

“I know.”

“So, um. Okay, uh - ”

Zayn’s finger hovers over the hang up button.

“So, what are you doing?” Louis asks.

Zayn does think of telling him - how he thinks he’s learned a new thing about himself - but he feels like it’s selfish. Selfish to talk about a new exciting thing when Louis is calling in light of the complete opposite.

“Sure,” Zayn says. “What about you?”

“ _Zayn_.”

“I’m just chilling. I’m here in my bed, I took my meds, and I’m like chilling. _The Walking Dead_ is on.”

“Okay, that’s cool. That’s good you’re… resting, or whatever. I think you needed it.”

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles, hiding his head under his blanket a little more. “But I’m not like sick or anything.”

“Sure, you’re not. But you obviously had a freak out last night and you need to chill. So.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything, because he knows, to an extent, Louis is right. Louis doesn’t say anything either; the silence is unbearable and feels like it’s lasting decades. Zayn’s going to die right here, a skeleton with his phone in his hand, blanket up to his neck, and a heart that’ll probably still be beating after decomposition, because even his corpse will have anxiety.

Zayn rubs his eyes and thinks of changing the channel.

“Dude,” Louis says, sounding blissed out. The flicker of his lighter is audible enough. Silently, he says, “What happened?”

Zayn shrugs, forgetting for a second that Louis can’t actually see him, but he isn’t bothered to say anything yet. Louis knows what happened, he probably remembers better than Zayn did.

“You tell me,” Zayn answers. He cringes, almost apologizing for coming off like an asshole, until Louis calls him out on it.

“Asshole,” there’s a crunch, and then, “sure, I’ll tell you. Harry kissed you and you fucking ran off. Which - like, I don’t get it - that wasn’t your first time, right? Did you do that the first time?”

“Um. What happened after,” Zayn asks, closing his eyes.

“You know,” Louis says, after a few more crunches, “it was a duck blur. I think Harry started crying.”

“Harry started fucking crying?” Zayn asks, the same wave of regret he was feeling last night sliding down his back. _I made him cry?_ He feels sick again, like how he does when Harry sits close enough to him that their thighs press - _like at the park_. It’s all he’s thinking about then, the two of them sitting at the park and Harry turning to make his stupid tongue-out face then smiling with his curls sweeping across his dimples, a moment Zayn’s never going to experience again because there’s no sane way they’d remain friends after he fucked everything up. The memory fades as soon as it came, the sounds of wind and leaves soon melding with Louis’ voice through the static of the phone.

“ - _hey!_ Zayn? Hello, hello? Hello?”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry. Yeah.”

“Hey,” Louis laughs tentatively. He stays quiet, crunching and smoking, until he says, “You blacked out, mate?”

“Nah,” Zayn answers. He rubs at his eyes, finding his eyelashes wet. His heart still feels like it’s in his throat, sitting there and threatening to come up. He wipes his hand on his sweatpants and shakes his head again. “No.”

“Okay, well. Well,” Louis hums to himself. Zayn doesn’t answer. “So, yeah. It was like - okay, maybe I should start from the beginning. This is post-Zayn-disappearing.”

“Mhm,” Zayn offers.

“Alright. So, I remember he just stared at me and I kind of stared back at him. And I asked, ‘did he do that the first time?’, and he just kept staring at me and shook his head a little. I think he feels bad ‘cos he kept asking ‘what did I do? what’d I do?’, you know?”

There's more crunching and the sound of Louis’ lighter flickering on again. Zayn waits patiently, letting his eyes fall.

“So I asked him if you did that the first time and he was like ‘no’, because it was fine the first time but _he_ was the one to leave, he told me. And - and so - Harry started pulling his hair, you know. Getting up and walking in circles. Pacing. You know, his terrible habits when he starts getting antsy. And out of nowhere he just starts crying, telling me he fucked it up, he thinks. Am I making sense?”

“Very little,” Zayn manages to say after a moment. “But I'm tracking.”

“And so I felt bad, yeah? I was like rubbing his shoulders and trying to pet his hair but he would tell me not to. Made me feel bad. I just sat there and watched him cry and he sat there with his head in his knees. So I tried to call you that night and you didn't fucking answer. And then Harry tried texting you, but you didn't answer. And - whatever. Eventually, I left. ‘Cos Harry said ‘please go.’ So I went. And now, I know you're both doing the same thing and sulking over god knows what, since I just got off the phone with him before I called you. I guess I… I dunno. Mate. You there?”

“Yeah,” Zayn replies, stretching his legs out under the blanket. “I'm right here.”

“ _Haha_. But are you?”

Zayn listens to him smoke, realizing how little he desires to smoke again. Maybe it'll come back to him.

“Yeah. I'm trying to be.”

 

-

 

They haven't said anything since Louis’ relay of what happened the night before, Zayn replaying the scene a million different ways in his head. Zayn’s just been listening to Louis chew on crackers and smoke his joint and the occasional meow of Pinkie, which makes Zayn’s chest hurt every time he hears it.

“Can I just say,” Louis asks after an entire hour of silence. “How ridiculous this is?”

Zayn’s heart drops a little, his neck getting hot. “What?”

“You and Harry being all _whatever_ around each other.”

Zayn lets water run over his knuckles, standing before his kitchen sink, testing the temperature. He asks again, hesitantly, “what?”

“Like you two are friends… who kissed once. Sorry, twice. And you're both freaking out about it? What's that about? I mean - ”

“I think we're just scared,” Zayn admits, mostly to cut Louis off from whatever he was about to say that could've potentially ruined all the confidence Zayn has spent the last few hours rebuilding. It sounds good, though, hearing himself admit that maybe they're both just scared.

“You would think you two would accept this with open arms, though.”

“Hm? Why? We've never done anything like that before.”

“But haven't you? Not physical, I guess - haven't you loved him?”

“Yeah,” Zayn shifts his feet and turns the water off. “I do love him. But, like. Before, it was as a friend.”

“It's still… is it not anymore?”

Zayn freaks out for a second, “It is. I meant still. I love Harry as a friend.”

“Okay,” Louis says, his tone gentler than it had been minutes ago. “Okay, Zayn. Do listen to me. I think, like, the first step is to stop ignoring this.”

“You know,” Zayn answers looking at the mess of dishes before him. “I have to clean the - ”

“Shut up. I think we both know you like Harry like _that_. That way. The gay way.”

Zayn flinches, listening to Louis carefully tread a path he's very obviously never taken before.

Louis continues, “And I want you to know that there's nothing wrong with it. I still love you both, even if you're in love with him. And you are in love with him. You love Harry. Don't you?”

Zayn doesn't answer. He doesn't have to, but mainly, he doesn't want to. Part of him feels like Louis is pushing him into a hole that just gets darker and darker and smaller and smaller the further you go in, despite Zayn’s kicking and screaming of ‘I’M NOT FUCKING READY YET!’. The other part of him is telling him that yes obviously, _obviously_ he loves Harry. He knows that. It just feels strange knowing that Louis knows that, knowing that Louis has been able to see Zayn and Harry together and realize Zayn's love for him just through… whatever. Being a pure bystander in it all.

Zayn is still stuck at a crossroads, though. He knows that keeping this in and telling Louis he's wrong and needs to shut the fuck up makes him feel horrible, like he's disgusted of himself and Louis thinking that of him. But hiding means he wouldn't have to encounter any of his feelings again. He could, very well, run away from the dark small hole and not turn back. One day, he could be married with kids to a pretty girl who's not Harry or any guy ever, and ignore that he's ever been this way.

And, despite how much Zayn is fine with hiding, he doesn't want to do that with who he loves.

He thinks of all those sexualities he's googled, how nice queer sounds when he thinks of himself and what he might call himself one day. He doesn't want to reverse all the progress he's made in like, the past six hours. And if he was ever to fall in love with a guy, _some_ guy, he'd want them to feel like he isn't afraid of loving them. Openly. Outside their apartments. In the real world, kissing in the snow and holding hands on the beach and shit.

It feels a little different now, knowing that he the possibility of him living in a world where him loving Harry can be a reality for him. And maybe, there's an alternate version of Zayn in some different dimension where Harry loves him back.

“- ayn? Zayn? Jesus _fucking_ christ… did he hang up?”

Zayn nearly laughs, but instead bites his tongue and apologizes again.

“Sorry. I'm just thinking, man. Sorry.”

“Sure, yeah. Whatever.”

There's a meow and the sound of Louis zipping something up.

“Can I come over?” Zayn asks, chewing his lip.

“Mmm,” Louis blows smoke. “I thought you’d never fucking ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi :)
> 
> Links that I refer to & quote from in this chapter:
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_sexuality
> 
> http://www.anxietycare.org.uk/docs/sexual.asp
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_sexuality_spectrum
> 
> http://www.uua.org/lgbtq/identity/queer (defining queerness)


End file.
